


The Gift

by newnumbertwo



Category: Battlestar Galactica, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newnumbertwo/pseuds/newnumbertwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill and Laura share more than just a love for mysteries....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michiruwater](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=michiruwater).



Title: The Gift  
Rating: T  
Word Count: ~2500  
Pairing: Adama/Roslin  
Disclaimer: don't own them.  
Summary: Bill and Laura share more than just a love for mysteries....  
A/N: Written for [](http://michiruwater.livejournal.com/profile)[**michiruwater**](http://michiruwater.livejournal.com/) for the gift exchange at [](http://rememberlaura.livejournal.com/profile)[**rememberlaura**](http://rememberlaura.livejournal.com/).  
A/N2:  Thanks to [](http://marzipanilla.livejournal.com/profile)[**marzipanilla**](http://marzipanilla.livejournal.com/) for the beta. *hugs*

 

  


Laura opened the Commander's “gift.” She had a habit of looking at the inside cover and title pages of any used book she picked up, never knowing what she'd find.

On the title page of Dark Day was the inscription:

_ In that book which is _

_ My memory... _

_ On the first page _

_ That is the chapter when _

_ I first met you _

_ Appear the words... _

_ Here begins a new life. _

It was unsigned and addressed to no one. Laura recognized the poem from when she was an undergrad. She wasn't sure of the title, but knew it was Alighieri. It seemed out of place in a mystery as bleak as

Dark Day, but that only intrigued her more.

The Commander surprised her a few times that day. This was just another example.

She shrugged and turned the page.

.

.

.

“ How are you liking the book?” he asked after their meeting.

She smiled. “You mean when I get a second to read?” He nodded and she continued, “I like it a lot. Of course, my favorite part so far isn't in the book at all.”

He looked confused. It wasn't an expression she'd seen on him before. Commander Adama was a man who liked to know what was going on.

“ There's a lovely inscription on the title page.”

He smiled. “That's right. I forgot about that.”

“ Was it a gift from someone?” she asked. If it were from his wife or someone, she'd return it—before her time came.

He shook his head. “I bought it myself.” He paused. “I wrote the inscription.”

“ Why?”

“ I was inspired by someone and thought it was a nice fit.” He smiled. “I'm glad you enjoyed reading it.”

She smiled. “I really did. I haven't seen it in so long. It was like going back to my college days.” She looked away, thinking of those far away times and place. “I should get going. Thank you, Commander.”

He walked her to the hatch. “Madame President.”

Bill smiled after he closed the hatch. He wondered if she suspected him at all. How could she, though? It wasn't like he could have written those words in the book just before handing it to her.

She had no way of knowing he had enlisted Billy's aid. The young man was reluctant, but he went along with it after Bill explained himself.

The commander had called. Billy answered, saying the President was in a meeting.

“ That's okay. It's you I want to talk to.”

“ Me?”

“ Yeah. I want to give the President something she'd like. Kind of a peace offering.”

“ Oh, that's a good idea.”

Bill grunted. He liked the kid. “What does she like, son?”

Billy didn't answer right away, but he came up with books and revealed she read mysteries—or at least had one packed in her bag.

Bill thanked the young man and hung up. He went to his shelf and found the perfect book for his President. He wrote the inscription and returned it to his shelf.

Bill waited for the perfect opportunity to give a gift.

.

.

.

Laura sat at her desk, which Billy had organized while she was sleeping.  Among her papers and folders, there was one note on her desk that hadn't been filed. She picked it up and read it:

_ Her loveliness I never knew _

_ Until she smiled on me; _

_ O, then I saw her eye was bright, _

_ A well of love, a spring of light! _

It was unsigned, but she recognized the writing. After all, she'd spent the better part of her days deciphering his handwriting—not that she judged; his was actually neater than hers. The note was definitely Commander Adama's.

She picked up her phone.

“ Adama,” he answered.

“ Is this line secure?”

He confirmed it was.

“ Are my frowns fairer than the smiles of other women?”

“ Huh?”

“ Don't play dumb with me, Commander. I know you quoted Coleridge in the note you left on my desk.”

“ Is that so?”

“ Yes.”

“ You recognize my handwriting?”

“ I should by now.”

He grunted. “Yes, your frowns are fair, but I still like your smiles more.”

“ Why would you write this?

“ I thought it would get you to smile,” he said.

She smiled. She couldn't help it. “Okay. Thanks.”

“ It worked. I can hear it.”

She couldn't have him gloating. He was hard enough to manage as it was. “I'm hanging up now. See you at the meeting tomorrow.”

After she hung up, she started searching her memory for the perfect line.

.

.

.

Bill opened the latest file from the President. He had trouble deciphering her chicken scratch at first, but like most other things involving that woman, he got used to it. On the top was a note. It seemed she was playing the game.

_ We sit at a clean table _

_ eating thoughts from clean plates _

_ and see, there is my heart _

_ germ free, and transparent as glass _

_ and there is my brain, pure _

_ as cold water in the china _

_ bowl of my skull _

_ and you are talking _

_ with words that fall spare _

_ on the ear like the metallic clink _

_ of knife and fork. _

He couldn't make heads nor tails of it at first. He'd always preferred the classics to the post modernists and the contemporary writers. However, he recognized the poet—and even had a volume of her poetry on his shelf.

Bill went to his shelf, which was organized by genre and alphabetized by author, followed by title. He found the Atwood text quickly and turned to the poem. This didn't take long, for he had the ability to remember the general location of anything he ever read. It wasn't something he could ever brag about, but it was certainly helpful in some situations.

He was right about the poem's turn at the end. He wondered if she remembered it. There was only one way to find out.

.

.

.

Laura picked up the phone after Billy informed her it was the Commander. She wondered what he wanted. “President Roslin.”

_ “ In spite of our famines _

_ it keeps itself alive _

_ :how it gorges on a few _

_ unintentional _

_ spilled crumbs of love.” _

“ What's that?”

“ The rest of the poem you left me in the file.”

“ Oh, right.”

She'd almost forgotten about their little game. It was a much needed amusement in a too serious world, but her responsibilities kept her from indulging more than once a week or so.

“ Do you see what it means?”

“ Not really. And I have much to do, Commander. Can we keep this brief?”

“ Fine. You can't stop it.”

“ Can't stop what?”

“ It.”

“ Oh.” She suddenly felt like she was in class without reading the material. She vaguely remembered the poem, and there they were having a cryptic conversation about it. She didn't like feeling unprepared.

“ I think you were inviting me to dinner.”

She smirked. The nerve of the man. “You do, do you?”

“ Oh yeah, but I have more space, so you should come here.”

“ Is that right?”

“ We can stick to fleet business, of course.”

She smiled. Dinner with Commander Adama wouldn't be so bad. “Okay. I'm free next Thursday.”

They settled on a time and wished each other pleasant evenings and good hunting, or whatever she said to him. She was still reeling from their discussion—and she needed Chamalla.

.

.

.

Two nights later, she was sitting in the brig. All thoughts of their game gone. At first she was angry, but then Lee appeared, then she was mostly sad and worried. Her own mortality catching up with her.

Sitting in that brig, she worried they’d both die, leaving the fleet in Tigh’s drunk hands. It was for that reason she knew she had to escape one way or another, why she was willing to face cylon and human alike and even form an alliance with Zarek.

Hearing Adama survived, and resumed command, was good news, but it didn’t stop her, couldn’t stop her, from continuing on her path. She was the Dying Leader.

.

.

.

When Bill woke up, he wanted three things, command of his ship chief among them. As he was regaining cognizance he overheard Cottle and Ishay and knew things weren't going well.  Tigh was his best friend, and he loved him like a brother, but he knew the strain of command was too much for him. The man simply preferred to stand in Bill’s shadow.

Any feelings he had regarding his son and the President--and their actions--had to put aside. The fleet needed him more than ever.

.

.

.

Within a few hours, Bill was aware of the situation. His son and that woman were gone, their betrayal continuing. It would hurt even worse if he wasn’t so busy trying to salvage the situation within the fleet.

He chose to ignore the fact Roslin and Lee clearly had help in their escape. He was having enough fun trying to replace his CAG. There was no way in hell he’d be able to replace his CMO. Plus, there was possibility that Cottle had acted against his will (doubtful, but possible).

Those were the tasks that took up his time. He had little time to even crack open a book. That didn’t matter. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like reading. He frowned every time he glanced at his bookshelf.

Instead, he turned to his other hobby--his beloved model ship.

.

.

.

Dee yelled at him. He didn’t expect that at all. She called him on everything he was doing--everything he knew he was doing wrong but couldn’t seem to stop.

He didn’t take it well, but he was proud of her.

She was right. He needed to bring his family back. He went to the bookshelf for the first time since Boomer shot him.

.

.

.

Laura couldn’t believe she was sitting across from Adama in the grass under a tarp. If she didn’t know better, she would have never believed he’d spent the last several weeks in a coma. Their first meeting since her arrest was going much better than she would have thought.

She really wasn’t sure what she was going to do after she found the path to Earth--if she found the path to Earth. Whether Adama and the rest of the fleet wanted to acknowledge it or not, she was the Dying Leader--and the rightful President. It was her duty to present any information she learned. It was also her duty to urge them to follow her, but she had no delusions that they’d all listen. She hadn’t really thought that far ahead, though. Getting through Kobol was a strain enough.

It seemed Adama was going to make her job easier for her. He was there following her. Whatever they discovered--if anything--they’d share with the fleet. It was about time he decided to help her along her path.

She listened to him say every day was a gift.

“ From the gods?”

He looked at her. “No. From you.”

She wasn’t expecting that. No one had ever said anything so nice to her. She knew he meant it too, and smiled.

He reached across the distance between them, handing her the Sacred Scrolls. “What do you say we find that tomb of yours?”

She took the Scrolls and nodded.

He said, “Love me not for comely grace/For my pleasing eye or face,/Nor for my constant heart./For those may fail or turn to ill,/So thou and I shall sever./Keep therefore a true woman's eye,/And love me still, but not know why;/So hast thou the same reason still/To doat upon me ever.”

She smiled. They were going to be okay. “I love that one.”

He nodded. “Me too.” He struggled to stand. Old age and grass made it a difficult task, which Laura understood well. Once he was standing, he offered his hand to help her. “Ready to find our new home?”

She took his hand and said, “let’s go.”

.

.

.

They spent the next few years quoting from poetry and other works they’ve read in their lives. The notes and wireless calls continued throughout all of their trials and tribulations: Cain, her cancer, New Caprica (before the occupation, of course--those months of silence between them were rough), Baltar’s trial. No matter what was going on in Admiral Adama’s and President Roslin’s lives, Bill and Laura could always carve out some time to play their game.

At some point, it stopped being a game--if it ever had been.

They were separated for the first time since New Caprica.

Laura was safe on a basestar with their new cylon allies. She tried to focus on their mission, but she missed her best friend. It didn’t help that Elosha kept appearing, showing her visions of Bill--and his/their family. She couldn’t deny it anymore. She loved him. She had for years.

So they found their way into his rack.

One night, Laura woke up. She turned in his arms. He looked so peaceful in sleep. In that moment, the affection she’d (mostly) always felt for him became almost overwhelming. She placed her palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. The moment made her think of Addonizio’s “Prayer.” 

_ Sometimes, when we’re lying after love, _

_ I look at you and see your body’s future _

_ of lying beneath the earth; putting the heel  _

_ of my hand against your rib I feel how faint _

_ and far away the heartbeat is.  I rest _

_ my cheek against your left nipple and listen _

_ to the surge of blood, seeing your life splashed out, _

_ filmy water hurled from a pot _

_ onto dry grass.  And I want to be pressed _

_ into the bed and covered over, _

_ the way a seed is pressed into a hole, _

_ the dirt tamped down with a trowel. _

_ I want to be a failed seed, the kind _

_ that doesn’t grow, that doesn’t know it’s meant to. _

_ I want to lie here without moving, lifeless _

_ as an animal that’s slaughtered, its blood smeared  _

_ on a doorpost, I want death to take me if it _

_ has to, to spare you, I want it to pass over. _

She wanted death to take her if it had to (it seemed it would anyway), to spare him, to pass over him, leaving him unscathed. She rested her head against his chest, falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat--as irregular as it was.

  
  



End file.
